


Forgiveness is Key

by Newrose12



Series: Hello John [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2705909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newrose12/pseuds/Newrose12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to my story 'Hello John', it's John trying to live with the fact that three people that he trusted betrayed him and learning to forgive them</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness is Key

**Author's Note:**

> Reference to almost suicide by drinking and by gun, and yes, it's probably what your thinking. I am planning on doing more, I have two more written and have plans for more after that. I did take things out of the actual Sign of the Three episode, but it's not to be seen as replacing that, that will play into the other stories later. Enjoy!

John glanced at his phone out of the corner of his eye, ignoring it as it buzzed on top of his desk and turned back to his paperwork.

"You're still not answering?" Mary asked, poking her head into his office and he glanced up at her briefly.

"I have nothing to say to them," he responded and she sighed before walking in and sitting in one of the chairs across from him.

"They did it to protect you John," she pointed out and he didn't respond, just continued filling out the paperwork before him. "John, even Mrs. Hudson forgave them, she even let him move back in."

"That's her decision," he responded finally, smiling when he thought of how Mrs. Hudson had responded when Sherlock showed himself to her. She had slapped Sherlock thinking he was a ghost, when she realized he was real, she slapped him again, but much harder.

"John," Mary stated and John glared up at her.

"You think I should forgive them? After they lied to me for three years? They looked me in the eye and lied, they cried with me, pretended to be my support. Do you know how humiliated I feel, how much I feel like a fool? I feel like they laughed at me when my back was turned."

"John, they didn't, _wouldn't_ do that, they're your friends."

"Friends, right," he said bitterly and Mary sighed before moving around the desk and kissing him on the top of the head.

"Don't work too late," she said quietly before leaving the room.

John leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, grateful for Mary and her flat that he had moved into after Sherlock had come back. They hadn't planned to move in together until they were married, but the reappearance of Sherlock accelerated that.

When Sherlock had first died, he had stayed, though Mrs. Hudson had moved on, she still owned the building, but she said she couldn't stay any longer. He had stayed for nearly a year, though it hurt to do so. Finally, his therapist had asked him why and when he sat down and thought about it, deep down, he had hoped that Sherlock would one day walk through the door again. Once he had realized that, he moved out. Molly and Greg had helped him do that and it had been hard on all of them, or so it had seemed.

He moved into a small one bedroom flat in an apartment building across town, it had been cramped, but it was all he could afford with his army pension, he hadn't worked during that first year.

Though it had been small, it was his, there were no odd experiments in the kitchen, no heads in the refrigerator, no eyes in the microwave and he refused to acknowledge how he missed that. He had met Mary while living there, they shopped at the same grocery store and one day she had been having problems with the machine and he had casually offered that yelling at it sometimes helped. She had glanced at him for a moment before trying it, surprisingly it worked. She had left before him and didn't see her again until the next week and got her phone number.

Mary had been essential in helping him come out of his depression, Molly and Lestrade had helped some, but they had been 'grieving' too, or so they said.

Since Sherlock had been back, he had ignored all three of their attempts to contact him, Sherlock kept sending him texts and leaving messages on his blog, but he ignored them. Lestrade had kept his distance, though he tried at least once a day to call him, but John didn't pick up. Molly on the other hand had tried to contact him once in the week since Sherlock had been back and had left a tear-filled apology on his voice mail.  Feeling tired, John pushed back from his desk and made his way upstairs to go to bed.

* * *

The attempts at seeking forgiveness didn't stop over the next week, even Mycroft had gotten involved. John had exited the surgery and found one of the older Holmes' black cars waiting for him, Anthea standing outside of it, on her phone. He didn't even say a word to her before heading towards his own car so he could go home. The black car had pulled around in front of him and a large burly man had climbed out.

"Get in," he said and opened the back door.

"Tell your boss he can go to hell," John shot back and tried to move around him but the man had stepped in his way. "I'm a doctor," he said, glaring up at the man, "I know how to fix people, but I also know how to break them, I'm also former military, I know how to take down men twice your size, you don't scare me."

"Please get in John," Anthea said, poking her head out, "Mr. Holmes needs to speak with you."

"You know what," John said, turning to her, "you're right, and I have some things to say to him as well." With that, he climbed into the car and the man closed the door and soon they were on their way. When they stopped and he climbed out, he found himself standing in front of a large house and then followed Anthea through the house to the back yard. On the patio that looked out over immaculate lawns, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes sat, having tea and looked up when he stepped out.

"Ah, John, there you are," Sherlock said, standing but John ignored him, his eyes fixed solely on Mycroft.

"I'm sick of this," he said, waiving a hand at Anthea and the man who had followed them, "if you want to talk to me, call me on my damn phone."

"Do sit down John," Mycroft said in his bored tone and the doctor saw red and before he knew what he was doing, he was across the patio and punching Mycroft in the nose.

"Go to hell," he hissed at both Holmes' brothers before he turned on his heel and stormed through the house, ignoring Anthea's shocked but impressed expression, Sherlock's calling of his name and Mycroft's cursing. As he made his way to the road, a car pulled up beside him, it wasn't one of Mycroft's black cars, this one was silver and sporty and had Anthea behind the wheel.

"Get in," she said, "I'll give you a ride home." Seeing that they were basically in the middle of nowhere and had very little probability that a cab would come this far, John got in. The ride back to the surgery was quiet, Anthea didn't pry and John stared out the window. When they arrived, Anthea said goodbye and drove off without another word. That was the last time he had seen or heard from either brother.

* * *

"John?" a voice asked as he was working at the surgery a few days after seeing Mycroft and Sherlock, and he glanced up to find Molly Hooper standing in the doorway and he sighed and set his pen down.

"Hello Molly," he said and she bit her lip as she glanced around him, "what are you doing here?" he asked and she flinched at the harsh words.

"I just wanted to see you, to try to explain," she said, ringing her hands and John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"There is nothing to explain Molly," he replied, sounding tired.

"I miss you John," Molly says quietly, her eyes filling with tears and John sighed and stood before pulling her in to a hug as she broke down, crying on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she said, wrapping her arms around him.

"I know," he replied and turned with her and pushed her into his chair before walking across the room and filling up a paper cup with water and returning to her with it.

"Thank you," she said, taking a sip and wiping her eyes with a tissue. "He did it for you, you know," she said, placing the cup on his desk.

"Molly," he said, shaking his head, not wanting to hear it.

"He did!" she went on, "if he didn't do what he did, _he_ would have killed you, Greg and Mrs. Hudson."

"That doesn't mean that what he did wasn't wrong," John replied, he had suspected that it was something like that, but he still found it hard to forgive.

"Will you please forgive me?" Molly pleaded and John sighed before pulling her to her feet and in to his arms again.

"You don't even have to ask," he said and she tightened her arms around him and left after a few minutes of tear filled conversation.

"You know," Mary said, sticking her head through the door once Molly had gone, "if you are forgiving her, you should forgive them."

"Thank you Mary," he replied, "please send in the next patient."

"You know I'm right," his fiancee said in a sing-song voice as she left the room to do just that.

* * *

Greg Lestrade entered his usual after-work pub and made his way to the bar and ordered a drink before he turned towards his usual table in the back corner and stopped. Picking up his pint, he made his way to the table slowly, almost afraid the other man would bolt if he moved too quickly.

"John," he said and sat down across from the other man, eying the nearly empty glass in front of him.

"Greg," John replied and sat back and they stared at each other for a long minute, "it's not alcohol," he went on, noticing Greg's eyes flicking to his drink again. Greg reached forward and took the glass before he took a sip, not truly surprised to find that it was Ginger Ale. "Satisfied?"

"Making sure that you aren't relapsing," Greg replied.

"I'm not Sherlock," John shot back and Greg flinched and an uncomfortable silence fell between them.

"John," he said and the other man shook his head to stop his apology.

"How long did you know?" he asked and Greg took a large swallow of his drink.

"I didn't, not at first," he responded and ran a hand over his face, "about five months after he 'died', I went to speak with Molly and he was there. I'd like to say that I hit him but I hugged him instead, surprised the hell out of both of us."

"And you agreed to keep his secret?" John asked, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice but failed miserably.

"You have no idea how close I was to calling you right then and there," Greg said, knowing how broken John had been after Sherlock's death.

"But you didn't," the other man pointed out and Greg sighed heavily.

"He made a strong argument about why he needed to stay 'dead'."

"So it was him?" John broke in and Greg looked at him in question, "that night." Greg closed his eyes as memories of that night came back with a vengeance. The fear and panic in the consulting detective's voice when he had called him at three in the morning, requesting an ambulance.

"Yes," he said, "if he hadn't been, you would have died." John nodded his head and took a sip of his drink and stared at the wall. "There were so many times I wanted to tell you John, especially after that night, but he was so convinced that if you knew, they would know and you would be in danger."

"Molly said they were after you as well," John pointed out, "didn't that put you in danger?"

"Yes, that's why I had to go on with the charade, I had to pretend to think he was dead, if I didn't it would have all unraveled."

"I get that," John said, gripping his glass tightly, "but what I don't get, is you looked me in the eye, month after month and lied to me. You grieved with me, cried with me, and yet you knew all along, he was alive in the world somewhere."

"John, I-" Greg started, guilt twisting in his stomach as he stared at the man who had become one of his best friends over the years.

"I've already forgiven you," John interrupted and the other man gaped at him, "I'm just not happy with you, and I'm very hurt."

"I understand," the other man replied and stared down at his drink.

"Well I should go," John said, standing up and pulling on his jacket, "dinner Sunday?"

"Oh," Greg responded, surprised, "of course."

"Great, see you then," John said, passing the DI and gripped his shoulder tightly as he went.

* * *

John stared at the door leading to 221B Baker Street and contemplated what he was doing there. He hadn't forgiven Sherlock, and he had no plans to any time soon, but he figured he deserved an explanation from the other man.. Stepping forward, he pulled out his key, he had never had the heart to give it back to Mrs. Hudson, and opened the door. As he made his way inside, memories of his first case with Sherlock assaulted his senses but he pushed them aside and ascended the steps. Once he reached the door at the top, he took a deep breath and opened it.

"John," Sherlock's surprised voice had him turning to find the man sitting in his chair, his legs outstretched and his fingers steepled together.

"You have clients," John responded, noting an older couple sitting on the couch to the right.

"No, actually, come in, they were just leaving," Sherlock said and pulled them to their feet before practically shoving them out of the door John had moved further in to the room so he didn't hear what they said to each other as Sherlock tried to close the door but finally he did and turned, straightening his vest as he did so.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your client meeting," John said, turning to him and the other man shrugged.

"Not clients, just my parents," he explained and John glanced towards the door and then walked to the window to watch them flag down a cab.

"Huh," he said as they drove away and glanced back at Sherlock.

"What?" the other man demanded fidgeting under his gaze.

"They seem normal." Sherlock rolled his eyes before turning to the kitchen.

"A burden I must live with," he said over his shoulder, "tea?"

"No," John said and watched as Sherlock poked his head out of the kitchen and they stared at each other for a long time. There were so many questions John wanted to ask, that he knew he deserved answers to but didn't know where to start so he just stared.

"Are you going to keep that?" Sherlock asked suddenly, pointing to his own lip, indicating John's mustache and that seemed to break John's silence.

"What the fuck Sherlock?" he demanded, his eyes narrowed.

"It's a valid question," the other man answered, "it ages you ten years, you should get rid of it."

"That's not what I'm talking about!" John yelled and Sherlock went rigid.

"John," he said his voice low and cautious, "I had to do it, if I hadn't you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have been killed, I couldn't let that happen."

"Three years Sherlock," John went on yelling as if the other man hadn't spoken, "three bloody years. I thought you were dead," he went on, his voice breaking, "and you let me grieve," he said, tears in his eyes, "how could you do that?"

"Moriarty had set it up that if I didn't kill myself, his people would kill the three of you, when he took his own life, it made it impossible for me to make him call them off. I had to," he finished lamely and John laughed harshly.

"You know, I think I could forgive you for lying to me," he said and Sherlock looked surprised, "and I'm sure, in time, I could forgive you for faking your own death, but what I can't forgive you for, is making me watch." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times, not sure how to respond to that, knowing that saying he was sorry wouldn't be enough.

'I buried enough friends during the war Sherlock," John went on, having leaned against his old chair for support, "I thought I was done with that but you made me do it again."

"The alternative was burying you, and I couldn't do that," Sherlock replied, his eyes pleading forgiveness but John turned away so he wouldn't have to see and his eyes landed on a spot, just before the fireplace.

"I guess I do owe you my life,' John said and heard the other man's breath hitch as he came to stand next to him, both gazing down. "How did you find me?"

"I was already here," Sherlock responded, "when you came in, I was in the kitchen, could smell the alcohol from there."

"I thought I was hallucinating, seeing you there, thought I was finally dying and you had come to greet me."

"I remember," Sherlock said quietly and John shot him a curious look, "you were talking, though I could barely understand you, you said the word 'finally' before passing out. I could only assume you meant one thing." They both stared down at the spot that John had fallen, both remembering that night.

"Why?" he went on after several tense moments between them. John was silent for a long time, he had asked himself the same question.

Why had he tried to kill himself with alcohol? He had never been a big drinker, after he had returned from the war, he had gone down that road a few times, never to that extreme though, but found it wasn't to his liking and stopped.

"Greg took my gun," he snarked back and the other man shot him a horrified look and he smirked. He had never thought of going that way, though the DI had taken it from him, just in case, and didn't believe John when he said he hadn't planned to use it.

"I was tired," John replied truthfully, "tired of everything, feeling like my life had returned to the way it was before you, tired of being alone again."

"You had Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock pointed out and John rounded on him.

"Two of those don't count when they were lying to me the whole time," he snapped.

"John," Sherlock tried to interrupt but the other man pushed on.

"I went to your grave," he said turning away again.

"I would hope so," Sherlock replied, trying to lighten things a bit.

"I made a little speech."

"I know," Sherlock said and John shot him a look, "I was there."

"I asked you for one more miracle, not to be dead."

"I heard you," was the quiet response and John took a deep breath. "I am so sorry John, so very sorry, please forgive me." Instead of responding, John turned on his heel and headed for the door, Sherlock watched him go without a word.

"Sunday dinner," he said, stopping just before exiting the flat, keeping his back to Sherlock.

"What?" the other man asked, surprised.

"We're having dinner on Sunday, Greg, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson will be there, please come," he explained.

"Of course," Sherlock agreed and John shot him a smile over his shoulder before moving forward but stopped again before he had taken more than one step and took a deep breath.

"You are the best and wisest man that I have ever known," he said, without turning, "so yes, of course I forgive you." With that, he continued on his way and Sherlock waited until he heard the front door close before collapsing into his chair.


End file.
